Ghost Writer

Congratulations! You are the proud owner of an 1896 Underwood model 1 - serial number 2300 if I'm not mistaken. I assure this isn't just any model 1. No, this is the typewriter that Darcy Everett crafted Summer Moon on. Likely you are aware and this knowledge has led to your acquisition, but perhaps you're more curious why a letter is concealed within. Obviously you appreciate the finer things, perhaps you're a writer. Oh, I certainly do hope you are, I'd love a companion to discuss literature with. The last few owners were collectors, those with enormous wealth and no vision. Dearest reader, I desperately hope you appreciate the written word, for I am in need of a kindred spirit. You see, I am Darcy Everett and I am this machine.

    I appreciate your confusion and pray you'll allow me to explain the circumstances that left me in this contraption for eternity or until it's demise. I, Darcy James Everett, was born in the summer of 1874, my father a politician and my mother an artist and socialite. In my youth I expressed a temperament that limited relationships - my interests purely reading and writing. I was born prematurely and barely survived infancy. I was sickly for much of my youth and, consequently, spent little time outside. These circumstances derived favor and affection from my mother, but promoted an indifference and jealousy from my father.

    At a young age, mother recognized my love for poetry and was most supportive. Mother would praise my works and share my poetry with her friends. Conversely, father showed a disdain for my interests, much preferring I be a sporting man like he and my brothers. Regardless of my father's objection, mother permitted me to study abroad. She had inherited a fortune and her father was a man of immense means and respect, meaning she in fact ran the household.

    At age 16, I was in America when a series of tragic events befell my family. My father, in a drunken fury, initiated a fracas in a local pub. The quarrel spilled onto the streets and he was left dead. Mother took my brothers and began a journey toward America so we could be reunited with a fresh start. Sadly, their ship never reached America and I was left orphaned in a new land. By fate or luck, I encountered and befriended an eccentric, one eyed local by the name of Wolfblood. Yes, that Wolfblood - famous Native American poet and mystic. He must've sensed the loneliness and sadness within me, a loss mirroring his own. I do genuinely believe he also perceived the passion I held, another trait we shared.

    He allowed me to live with him in a desolate corner of the Pennsylvania mountains. He taught me the skills necessary to survive and navigate this difficult terrain. All he loved was taken by Englishmen, so it was quite meaningful that he would take one in. When asked why he was so generous, he would say I was of the same spirit as him. His only rule was simply to never open a simple wooden chest, claiming it was where he harnessed his vitality. Very little was known of Wolfblood, including his real name. His childhood is steeped in mystery, but his tales of survival I believe to be fact.

    At age 10, his family was murdered before his eyes by drunken English wanderers. He only survived because of two wolves and their rush to aid him as he fled, losing his eye in the violent exchange with the English. According to Wolfblood, these wolves slaughtered five men. For years he wandered with his new pack across the mountains. One winter, he befriended a traveling missionary. He learned English and according to multiple testimonies, held a divine gift for wordcraft. He chose to remain in the mountains in a small cabin he constructed for himself and his wolves.

I would travel between those mountains and New York City seasonally, using the former to focus and the latter to work. After years with no success, I became desperate. Looking for inspiration, I broke his only rule and foolishly opened the chest. I heard a howl and immediately felt moved, as if nature itself had spoken to me, guiding my hands across these very keys. That instant I wrote my masterpiece, Summer Moon. When I returned to New York, I sold my works and established my writing career. I chose to stay in New York for fear Wolfblood would discover my betrayal. By 1900, at age 26, I had amassed wealth and status shadowing my mothers. After a few years however, it had been all but lost. I had been unable to write anything noteworthy and in a series of financial mistakes, I had squandered almost everything.

    I packed my belongings and returned to the mountains. When I found the cabin, it appeared abandoned. I investigated and explored nearby, but no sign of Wolfblood was found. I entered and made myself comfortable before hearing distant howls. I looked to the window and observed three wolves. As they drew near, I noted one of the wolves had but one eye. I attempted to block the door but it was futile, two of the wolves bound through the windows and circled me. The door burst open and in walked Wolfblood, somewhere between man and wolf.

    I tried to escape, but before I could move he had me by the throat. His eye glowing red with rage and his teeth now a terrifying display of feral rage. Without saying a word I knew his intentions, I accepted my fate. He mercilessly tore into me with his teeth and splattered my blood and tissue into this typewriter, my remains a meal for his hounds.

Indeed my essence resides in this apparatus. Here I exist, somewhere between geist and artifact. I know not the year or where I reside unless you choose to tell me. I beg you dearest reader, speak to me.